


Command Bay

by Iron



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, PWP, Post-Lost Light, Sticky Interfacing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-19
Updated: 2019-12-19
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:00:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21854134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iron/pseuds/Iron
Summary: Rodimus takes a bet to frag Thunderclash. Thunderclash enjoys himself.
Relationships: Rodimus/Thunderclash
Comments: 13
Kudos: 123





	Command Bay

Rodimus hates the ship. Oh, he’d joined up willingly enough, but Thunderclash’s mechs were not the hodgepodge collection of mechs that had taken to the Lost Light, and they had no interest in a failed, drunken Prime or chasing the glories of a War that had never taken place in this universe. They’re lighter mechs for it, most of them. They suit Thunderclash’s ship and crew, anyways, leaving Rodimus as the misfit. 

Rodimus hates most of them out of principle. Most of them are boring, dull mechs who never should have left Cybertron – what other kind of mech would choose to follow _Thunderclash_? Most of them dislike him back, if only for his blatant dislike and disregard of their captain. Rodimus is pretty sure most of them just want to frag the convoy. 

Thunderclash observes all of this, and his chest aches as he sees how lonely, and how alone, Rodimus is in this new universe. So many of the members of the Lost Light had found new happiness in the Functionalist universe, found _purpose_ there, but Rodimus had only found another ship, and another unending adventure. 

Of any of them, Rodimus deserved to find happiness. 

Perhaps that’s why he allows Rodimus to do as he does, when he makes a bet with the most hostile members of the ship – a bet that he can bed Thunderclash before all of them. Of course someone told their captain of the bet, and if he were a better mech, he’d have put a stop to it then. He is not a better mech. 

This is perhaps his only chance to frag Rodimus, and after vorns of desiring the speedster, is it so wrong to allow himself to be seduced by the mech?

Surely it’s not a sin, if Rodimus is doing this of his own free will. That’s what he tells himself when Rodimus corners him as he’s leaving his office, all slick grace and sleek lines as he sidles up to him. Thunderclash watches with some amusement as Rodimus offers him a cube of energon. “You’ve been working late. I remember how it was – up late tonight, and you’ll still have to be up early tomorrow. Figured a cube would be a nice pick me up.” 

Thunderclash considers him for a long moment. “Did you bring two? I could turn on the view screens in the command deck and we could fuel and watch the stars.” 

Rodimus hesitates, but he brings out a second cube, spoiler wings flicking up and down. “Yeah, I got you, mech. Figured we could have dinner together. Shoot the slag, captain to captain.” 

He nods, leading Rodimus into the empty command center. This late at night, while perched on an actual planet, there isn’t need to keep a constant bridge crew; he’d let them all off for a night of fun. It means that he can settle into the captain’s chair, and Rodimus can lean against the computer console as he sets the view screens up to show the outside world. 

The stars on this planet really are beautiful, splatters of bright, bright lights against a navy sky cut through by the planet’s blue and green rings. Every few moments he can see ignitions alight between stones in the rings as volatile elements crash against each other and sparks set ambient pockets of gas on fire. It reminds him of Rodimus, actually. Bright, ferocious, but an oddly delicate collection of barely contained components. 

He sips from the corner of his cube as Rodimus fidgets against the console. The energon is sweet and smooth, and it warms him from his tank to his chest and lends him courage to speak. “You don’t have to stand,” he tells Rodimus. “You should sit on the arm of the chair. It’s wide enough for you.” Because it was, unlike the command chair on the Lost Light, made for a mech of Thunderclash’s size. The arms alone are wider than Rodimus’ shapely aft. There’s plenty enough room for the mech to settle there. 

Rodimus hesitates, and Thunderclash knows that if it weren’t for the damned bet that he’d be shoving off the consoling and leaving already, if he’d even bother to come by in the first place. But he only hesitates for a moment before his own pride has him thumping down on the seat, energon splashing over the rim of his cube and over his hand. 

“Frag –“ He almost drops his cube as he jerks his hand up, hissing. 

Thunderclash takes it. “Don’t flick energon everywhere, please. I don’t want to attract scraplets by dirtying my command bay with fuel.” There’s energon on his fingers and trailing down his wrist, and at the angle Thunderclash has his hand at, the fattest drops are trailing quickly towards his elbow. “Do you have a cloth?” 

With a grunt, Rodimus leans down and runs his glossa all the way from elbow to wrist, the rough flat of it passing over Thunderclash’s thumb where it rests just below Rodimus’. “No, and I don’t need one.” 

Thunderclash’s ventilations stall as that clever, warm tongue runs over his fingers, then over Rodimus’, lapping up spilled energon with quick efficiency. The bottom of his tank feels heavy as Rodimus glances up at him from where he’s drawing his own fingers into his mouth, carefully suckling the energon from his seams. He pulls off of them with a quiet _pop!_

“You’re not grossed out, are you?” There’s energon caught in the corner of his mouth. Thunderclash shakes his helm as he reaches up to wipe it away with his thumb. 

“Far from it. You’ve no idea what you can do to a mech, do you?” 

Rodimus blinks at him, and Thunderclash lets his engine slip into a deep hum. 

Far too innocent for a mech of his age and intentions. It must be an affectation. 

He leans down to draw him into a kiss, cradling the edge of his jaw. Rodimus tastes like energon and high grade and hot metal, and Thunderclash allows him to pull away first. Those Matrix-blue optics have gone pale, and Thunderclash can’t tell if it’s from rage or desire. 

“Holy frag, you know about the bet.” Rodimus leans away from Thunderclash, dropping his cube on the console. Thunderclash carefully sets his own, nearly empty one, next to Rodimus. “No way you’d be doing this if you didn’t already know.” 

Thunderclash considers lying, before dismissing it. The damage of a lie would be worse than anything else that would happen tonight, even if Rodimus simply chose to leave. “I know. I was waiting for you to approach me.” 

“How’d you know I’d do it?” 

“I know that you don’t like to stand down from a bet.” He leans towards Rodimus, fans cycling warm air. “You were doing a good job of seducing me, you know. I was rather impressed.” 

“Impressed by a cube of energon? You’re easy.” 

“You’d be surprised by how little people try with me. They all expect me to be in the instigator.” He allows himself to loom, jus the smallest amount. “And I do not sleep with my crew. It would muddy relations.” 

“But you’d frag me.” 

“You were my captain. It’s different.” 

A smile steals the corner of Rodimus’ mouth, and he straightens until the top of his helm nearly brushes Thunderclash’s chin. “Then you’d frag me just ‘cause of that?” 

“That, and a distinct lack of respect for me. I don’t have to be afraid that you’ll feel as if I’d coerced you into my berth. I would rather not harm my interfacing partners emotionally.” 

“That makes it sound like you’d hurt them physically.” There’s something in the air between them, as their vents recycle the same air without letting it cool. Their chests nearly brush as Thunderclash settles his weight on one hand, torso twisted in his chair. 

The silence speaks for itself, and they both hear Rodimus’ fans pick up a notch. 

“Why don’t we make a deal, _Captain_?” Rodimus lays his hand on top of Thunderclash’s, fingers digging into his hand. “I let you frag me – you overload me until I can’t even speak – and I’ll give you someone you can let out steam with. Bet it can’t be fun going vorns without a frag partner.” 

Not fun, no, but Thunderclash hadn’t felt that interfacing was a _need_ , this all consuming thing that threatened the fabric of his morality, until he’d come onto Rodimus’s ship. “You’ll have to follow my rules if we do. This is, after all, for _you_ to win your bet.” Rodimus scoffs, but nods. 

“What kind of rules are we talking about?” 

“Do you know the light system?” 

“Yeah. Isn’t that for like, kinky stuff?” For the first time, Rodimus sounds genuinely interested. 

“It can be. I prefer to use it to allow my berth partners the ease of declaring their enjoyment of our escapades without having to struggle to form multiple words or sentences.” 

“Oh. Kinky.” Rodimus scoffs. “So you want me to use it?” 

“And more, but I suppose that’s the only thing worth mentioning now. And you? What would you like for me to bring into this?” He runs his free hand, the one not holding him up, against Rodimus’s waist. “Well?” 

Rodimus hesitates for only a moment. “No kissing, I don’t do that slag with one night stands. And no oral – it takes forever and I don’t get off on it. Node’s the same. Penetration or you’re just teasing me. Otherwise, I’m game.” 

He pinches a wire in the gapped seam of Rodimus’s thigh. “Wonderful. In that case, why don’t you open for me?” 

The speedster hesitates for only a second before popping his panel, revealing a partially hardened spike and dampening, quickly swelling valvelips. The spike is pretty enough, slim and orange and mostly unadorned but for an almost tastefully stylistic line of flames up the bottom in red paint. The tip is scuffed like he’s been using it too much to masturbate. Thunderclash thumbs the head of it gently as he bends down a little more to examine Rodimus’s equally unadorned valve. The lips are red, the inner petals a bright yellow, with a fat, glowing red anterior node near the top and smaller, similar ones surrounding his wet, slitted entrance. The edges quiver and grow shiny with lubricants when he blows cool air over them. 

“What did I say about oral?” Rodimus hisses, hips jerking into Thunderclash’s hand. 

“I was just looking. You’re beautiful there.” 

He runs his hand over Rodimus’s spike once, then twice, before moving down to drag his fingers through the fat red folds of his valve. He gently moves them apart until that bright yellow interior is exposed, almost in awe as slick lubricants drip down his fingers. Rodimus had enjoyed their talk. Rodimus was _hungry_ for him. 

Rodimus whimpers and pushes his hips into Thunderclash’s touch, and it’s more than the mech can resist. 

Thunderclash picks him up and eases a shuddering Rodimus over the edge of the command console, one hand on his front and the other on his hip. Rodimus is all but dripping onto the keyboard as his chest comes to rest against the computer screen, thighs spread wide enough to leave his swollen valve lips gaping open. Thunderclash considers sliding down for a taste of his own, before remembering that this was not what he agreed to. 

Rodimus wants to forget. Rodimus wants to overload as often and as quickly as he can, and he’d already told Thunderclash that oral doesn’t do much for him. He still reaches down between Rodimus’ thighs to gather lubricants on his crooked fingers, bringing them to his mouth with a hungry, starved rev of his engine. They taste like Rodimus in concentrate, beneath the saline base of the lubricant. He groans and finally lets his panel transform back, no longer able to dismiss the increasingly frantic pings his systems were sending him. The head of his spike comes to rest against Rodimus’ hip, the ridge just beneath the flared tip just barely kissing the edge of his valve panel. Rodimus makes a frustrated noise and tilts his hips up, displaying further his hungry, cycling valve and its tempting red nodes. 

With a soft, hungry groan, Thunderclash rubs his fingers over Rodimus’ plush valve lips, fingers kneading the soft mesh. He slides two fingers between the starved speedster’s inner folds, dipping into and briefly teasing the edge of the mech’s entrance before moving down to gently pinch and roll his topmost node between his fingers. Rodimus jolts on top of the computer, legs kicking fruitlessly in the air as Thunderclash teases him. The larger mech catches on of his legs, pulling it up and out until it’s resting against the side of his upper chest. “Good soldiers do not injure their captains,” he chides gently, scraping the edge of his thumb against that sweet, swollen node. Rodimus groans into the air above the console. “Apologize, Rodimus.” 

Rodimus curses at him. “Will you just – “ he whines, “It _hurts_ , get _on_ with it before I explode!” There’s a true edge of pain to his voice, though one that Thunderclash can barely detect. 

Thunderclash hesitates. “Captain…” No, no longer his captain, but the verbal tick – the authority he’d granted the mech over him of his own volition – is hard to throw. “Rodimus, if it hurts, I need you to use the light system. Green, yellow, or red?” 

Rodimus’ engines flicker and stall. “Um, uh – look, it doesn’t – I – I can keep going! You’re not going to _stop_ -“ 

Thunderclash flicks Rodimus’ node chidingly. “I asked if you were hurting. I did not say I would stop if you were – I do not want this to be an unpleasant experience. Are you hurting to the point that you want me to stop, or would you simply like me to give you an overload?” 

Rodimus thrusts back against his fingers uselessly. “I need – I need an overload, I feel like I’m about to overheat –“ 

“How long can you wait for one?” He thumbs Rodimus’ node as he speaks, pressing the soft bundle of nerves against his index finger. Rodimus had been _extremely_ clear about what would get him off, and his particular needs, before they’d started. This is merely a cruel tease for the mech. 

“I – I _can’t_ you aft!” All of Rodimus’ vents are wide open, blasting hod, humid air over Thunderclash’s frame and fogging up the glass of the console screen as he squirms uselessly on the broad-faced machinery. His legs kick out, and his hands bang against the front of the computer useless. When Thunderclash dips his fingers into Rodimus’ valve, the mesh is almost molten hot. _About to explode indeed_. 

One finger, quickly followed by a second, slips in that hot, sweet valve. Lubricants start to drip down towards his knuckle as he crooks his fingers, searching for a bit of softer mesh until – 

Rodimus’ legs kicks out as he sobs, back bowing and spike spurting across the screen of the console. “Yes yes _yes! Fuck!_ ” 

Thunderclash can’t resist sliding down to lap at the mesh around his fingers, if only momentarily. That sweet little valve is clenching and unclenching sporadically around him, fingertips still massaging the well-hidden node cluster until Rodimus falls into a shuddering, whimpering pile of struts on the computer. He slides his fingers out as the mech goes utterly limp. 

It takes a few moments for him to properly gather up Rodimus in his arms, pulling his back up and against his chest and picking him up with an arm beneath his aft and another under his knees, stumbling back until he can sit on the throne – the captain’s chair – with Rodimus pressed against him and facing the mess he’d made of the computer. “Fuck,” the little speedster slurs, “ _Fuck_.” 

Nodding, spike throbbing insistently against his abdominal plating, Thunderclash arranges Rodimus in his lap until he’s sitting more comfortably against the inlet of his arm and chest, cradled there until his systems start to equalize and the mech starts squirming. Every few moments he’ll brush against Thunderclash’s still heavy, hard spike, sending _zings_ of pleasure straight up the mech’s backstrut. He runs his hands over Rodimus’ frame, carefully wiping away gathering condensation and sliding the pads of his fingers over thin, narrow seams. 

Rodimus is very sweet as Thunderclash helps him onto his knees, finally getting his second wind. He snickers when he sees Thunderclash’s spike; the body is bright orange, like his face, with strips of teal on the hard, rounded ridges going down the sides. The lines of flared nubs between each ridge are white, like his insignia, and the broad head is topped with a piercing that glows soft navy in the darkened command bay, a hard, round tip just above the transfluid slit and another just beneath the flared head. He flicks the head, sending the whole thing bobbing hungrily in the air and drips of pre-fluid to bubble up, joining what had already been there previously. Thunderclash hisses. “Eager?” 

“I didn’t expect the piercing.” 

“You should ask your amica what Ratchet’s look like. He did mine.” He manhandles Rodimus across his lap, until the mech is hovering just above the head of his spike, wet valve just kissing the tip. “You had yours. Now it’s my turn.” He lets his engine rumble as he pulls Rodimus down by the hips, fat head of his spike pushing against before finally sliding between those plush, thick lips. He ruts up in Rodimus achingly slow, working his spike into the tight, slick valve millimeter by millimeter. Rodimus is loose enough from arousal and his previous overloads to admit Thunderclash easily. He doesn’t care; he works him open slowly anyways, until Rodimus’ hands are claws against his shoulders and the mech is whining, begging without words to be fragged. To be _fucked_ , like organic swill. 

Rodimus keens when the tip of his piercing scrapes against his ceiling node, free in his pleasure now that Thunderclash has ripped away even that façade of reluctance he’d put on earlier. Thunderclash drags his limp hands to his belly. “Frag yourself on my spike,” he murmurs, hands exploring Rodimus’ frame. Otherwise occupied, he’s had disappointingly little time to explore the speedster’s frame on his own. With Rodimus concerned with chasing his own pleasure, there’s no better time to touch and fondle and explore like he’d always been denied. He slides his hands from Rodimus’ hips and up his sides, more concerned with discovering each seam and spot that makes Rodimus gasp than in finding his own completion. 

He rolls his hips in slow waves, letting Rodimus rut and grind and gasp in his lap. His hands find Rodimus’ fairings, his sides, his spoiler, and he plays with the winglets until Rodimus gasps and screams and overloads in his lap in a sobbing mess. He collapses against Thunderclash’s chest, and the larger mech, overcome by the way that Rodimus’ valve bears down on his spike, ruts into that soft, giving valve. 

It’s not until he feels Rodimus go completely slack, shuddering, that he allows himself to overload deep into that sweet little valve, pressing close and deep as he can to overload against Rodimus’ forge entrance. Of course the little speedster is capped – all Autobots are – but the sheer thought of having pressed so deeply into Rodimus makes the overload so much sweeter than it was. 

He curls around Rodimus in the aftermath, one hand pressing the speedster’s face against his chest as he finishes rutting into him, the other rubbing soothing circles into his lower back. It takes a long few moments before Rodimus comes back to himself. Thunderclash winces as the mech pulls himself harshly off his spike, a mix of transfluid and lubricants dripping over both of them. 

“…not bad. Not great – don’t fragging think you could be _great_ on the first try - but not bad.” 

Thunderclash doesn’t bother with listening to his hiss of discontent as he manhandles Rodimus back into his lap. “I’ll be better next time. Promise.” 

“You think there’ll be a next time?” He scoffs, but he doesn’t move away. Thunderclash luxuriates in the feeling of the mech in his arms, venting slowly and deeply, relaxing slowly into Thunderclash’s frame. 

Thunderclash stands abruptly, once he feels like he’s gotten feeling back in his legs, dragging Rodimus up in his arms with him. “Well. Better to get practice in while I can, then, right?” He starts back on towards his quarters, mindless of how Rodimus squirms in his arms. If he really wanted to get away, he would. 

Maybe, this time, Thunderclash would even kiss him.


End file.
